Nightcap
by Lord Alfred Douglas
Summary: Dr Kreizler and Moore have a chat that gets heated over some drinks... slash. From Caleb Carr's Alienist series


At about midnight, Kreizler and I finally made our way out of Roosevelt's door, despite his pressing us to stay, just a little while longer. He had been having a 'small' celebration for his recent promotion.

As I got out onto the street, the cold New York air cleared my brain a bit. My eyes were still heavy-lidded, either from exhaustion due to the recently closed Libby Hatch case, or from the generous amounts of wine Theodore had offered and I, I admit, had not refused.

I looked at Kreizler and saw he was in a similar state, although he looked more exhausted than anything else. I hailed a passing cab and we both got in. Kreizler had chosen to leave his carriages at home that night.

'34 Gramercy Park, driver,' I called up to him, as my home was closer than Seventeenth Street. I looked across at Kreizler, where he was sitting next to me. He gave me a tired smile and then leaned back with his eyes closed.

'You look like hell, Kreizler,' I observed. He did not even deign to open his eyes when he responded. 'Thank you, ever so much for that, Moore.'

He sat silent for a moment and then continued. 'Of course, normally, when I track a murderer down over most of the State of New York, I'm in perfect health afterwards. And of course the death of a friend and an intense trial are immensely stimulating.'

I stayed silent, rather hurt, especially that blow about Rupert's death. Kreizler would never have made such a comment normally. I cared a great deal about Rupert Picton. After Libby Hatch murdered him, I would have been glad to see her go to the chair, and to hell with context and other psychological crap.

Kreizler seemed to realize his remark had been below the belt after a minute. 'I'm sorry, Moore,' he said softly. 'I know his death affected you greatly.' I continued to say nothing, a most unusual state for me, but I accepted his apology, with a very slight nod.

We sat quietly, listening to the horse's hooves against the cobblestones until we reached my pathetic excuse for a home, 34 Gramercy Park.

'Care to come up for a nightcap?' I offered to Kreizler, expecting him to refuse. To my surprise, he said 'All right, yes,' and climbed out of the cab with me. I paid the driver and we continued up the steps to the front door of No. 34. I turned my key in the lock and pushed in the door.

Old Stevenson was still hanging about. I always pitied the old soul, he really had nothing more in his life than polishing the brass and wood in the little elevator he took such pride in. 'Hello Stevenson,' I greeted him. 'That you, Mr. Moore?' he said, squinting at me from down the hall.

'Yes it's me Stevenson.'

'And have you another lady friend with you?' he asked with a chuckle, which he promptly stifled when he caught sight of Kreizler behind me. 'Oh. Beg your pardon, Doctor.' Kreizler gave him a short smile as he opened the door to the elevator.

We stepped in, and he set the thing in motion. When we reached the fifth floor, we stepped out and Kreizler pressed a tip into the old man's hand. His face brightened. 'Good night, sirs,' he said, happily, and pulled the cable to send the elevator back down to the ground again.

I stepped up to my door, and turned the key in the lock. I switched on the electric lights in the living room area, and strode over to the cupboard in the corner, which contained alcohol. I poured a glass of brandy for Kreizler and myself, and, handing one to him, moved to sit on the sofa. Kreizler sat next to me and took a sip of the brandy.

I inhaled the rich scent for a moment, and then took a deep swallow. 'Really, Moore,' Kreizler remarked, his tired black eyes somehow regaining their old mischievousness for a moment, 'I would have thought even you would have had enough to drink at Theodore's tonight.'

I groaned. 'Theodore's tonight is precisely the reason _why_ I need a drink.' I slumped back on the sofa with a sigh. 'My parents, Kreizler! You know how I feel about my parents! I swear, the next time I see Theodore, I'll kill him. How could he invite my parents?'

'Most of the high society families he has an acquaintance with were there.' Kreizler observed. 'I'm sure he didn't mean for you to be uncomfortable, Moore. It's all just social politics.'

'Well, if it was a social politics event, why did he invite us?' I replied. 'We, Kreizler, represent the uttermost ills of society to all those snooty, rich families. I am a clear representation of how 'evil substances' can warp even the best of bloodlines. You, to quote, some people with whom we are very familiar, are destroying the American family as an institution.'

I was nearly shouting now. 'And what about Sara and the Isaacsons! They are everything Roosevelt has tried to do right in Mulberry Street, and consequently, they are hated because they represent, what, according to those high society dames, will topple our nation! Change!!'

Kreizler, having sat quiet through my entire outburst, now spoke. 'Are you quite finished, Moore?' he asked. 'Yes, quite.' I answered, relieved at being able to express my feelings to _someone._

'Oh good.' Kreizler said, with a sigh of relief. He set his brandy glass down on my coffee table and leaned heavily into the back of my sofa, his eyes closing. I looked at him concernedly. It wasn't like my friend to show such signs of exhaustion, even if he was about to collapse from fatigue.

Dark circles under his eyes worried me. Had he been getting any sleep? It didn't look likely. I was sure that his hair had had fewer strands of gray in it before this Libby Hatch case. Even his moustache looked limp and tired.

Absently, I reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes. I always told him his hair was too long. However, when I touched the skin of his face with my fingertips, he suddenly sat upright as if I had given him an electric shock.

His eyes locked on mine, and the dark intensity of his gaze startled me. For a moment, I seemed to lose my mind. I was lost in pools of the darkest inky black. I could see my own face reflected in his eyes, a hundred times over.

Unconsciously, I leaned forward, ever so slightly. He must have leaned forward too because, before I knew it, his lips had met mine in a soft kiss. The gentle pressure of his lips against mine, his moustache and beard against the skin of my face must have been one of the most incredible sensations I had ever felt.

We pulled apart, all too quickly, but as soon as I caught my breath, I leaned in to capture his lips once again. He didn't resist, or pull away, but allowed me to kiss him over and over, feeling the glorious sensuality of his mouth on mine.

I edged closer to him on the sofa and the next time I kissed him, I slid my arms around his neck and wound my fingers in his long, dark hair. I held this kiss longer than the others, my tongue started to probe his lips, seeking to open his mouth to me.

I don't know if he realized at that moment exactly what he was doing, but whatever the reason, he suddenly pulled away from me and stood. My arms felt empty without him and every nerve in my body screamed to kiss him again, but I restrained myself.

'Laszlo…' I reached out to touch him, but he shied and turned away from me. 'This is _wrong_.' His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. 'It's wrong, John.'

I put one hand on his right shoulder and he didn't pull away. 'Laszlo,' I said softly. 'Does it feel wrong to you?' He shook his head almost imperceptibly. I tightened my grip on his shoulder. 'Does it Laszlo?'

'No.' The word sounded as if it cost him much. I pulled him round to face me, so I was looking in his eyes. 'Trust your feelings,' I said. 'You always have. And it usually turns out well.' This time, his shaky nod was visible.

He leaned forward hesitantly and I met his lips in the middle. He pressed hard against me, in what seemed almost like desperation. My tongue pressed against his lips again and this time his mouth opened willingly to me.

All the actresses, music hall singers, and just paid whores I had ever been with had never caused me to feel anything like this. I felt as if fire had replaced blood in my veins. Laszlo's tongue caressed mine, and I'm sure my knees nearly buckled.

I put my arms around him again, my fingers roaming his broad back, feeling bumps of muscle and bone through the fabric of his clothes. We pulled apart for just long enough to draw oxygen back into our lungs and then we came together again in another kiss.

My lips strayed from his for a moment and I kissed all down the side of his neck and his ear. His head tilted to expose more of his throat and he gave a quiet moan. My fingers wandered down his chest to find the buttons of his waistcoat, which I undid, one by one.

I reached up to his shoulders once again, and pushed coat and waistcoat off of them. He shrugged quickly out of the heavy clothes, and proceeded to perform the same service for me. We were left standing there, in just shirts and trousers, breathing unsteadily and just looking at each other.

I took hold of his right forearm and pulled him to me, at the same time stepping backwards until we both sat down on the sofa. His mouth covered mine once again, and we were kissing with a passion and a fervor that had been absent before.

I slid his suspenders off of his shoulders with one hand, while the other massaged the back of his neck. I then relinquished his mouth once more to make short work of his shirt and undershirt, leaving his chest exposed to the air.

He twitched for a moment as I attempted to slide off his left sleeve, but then stilled and let me expose his injured arm. Although I had seen it often enough before, I never had since I had found out that it was his father, and not an accident that had caused the injury.

I brushed my fingertips along the wounded flesh, and Laszlo shuddered under the touch. I pulled my hand away abruptly. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Am I hurting you?' Laszlo looked into my eyes, and I saw a myriad of emotions in his. 'No,' he said, his German accent more pronounced than was usual. 'Don't stop.'

Taking these two words as permission to go on, I kissed him again and again, until we were panting for air, our lips swollen. Laszlo drew nearer to me, and I did nothing, but stayed still, hoping he would take the initiative.

With his left arm still at his side, he started to unbutton my shirt with his good right hand, ever so slowly. When he reached the last button, and pushed my shirt and suspenders off my shoulders, I could bear it no longer, and shucked my undershirt myself.

I pressed myself against Laszlo, the feel of his skin on mine, his mouth on mine, almost too much for me to bear. I shifted so I was nearly lying on top of him. He gasped, though whether from arousal or from my weight crushing the air out of his lungs I wasn't sure.

I kissed and sucked on his neck and collarbone, making him gasp and moan in pleasure. My hands wandered down his chest, brushing his taut stomach, which quivered at the leisurely stroke of my fingers across it.

My hands and tongue played across his nipples, and he collapsed back further onto the sofa.

After a time, my hands reached down to the buttons of his trousers, but upon feeling my fingers, he cried out in German and pulled away.

My grasp of German is better only than my grasp of Spanish, and ultimately, I haven't a word of either. However, I was sure I had caught, in Laszlo's cry, the German words for 'no', 'father' and 'please'.

I reached out for Laszlo and he accepted my touches. 'It's… it's nothing, John,' he said shakily. 'Residual nightmares about Libby Hatch, that's all…'

I took hold of his shoulders, and turned him to face me. 'Bullshit, Laszlo.' I said plainly. 'It has nothing whatsoever to do with Libby Hatch. I can still hear, you know, and I heard 'No, father, please.'

Laszlo stiffened under my fingers and would not meet my eyes. A terrifying realization crossed my mind. 'Laszlo…' I asked. 'Your… your father. Did he… did he rape you?' Laszlo didn't answer, but when I pulled his face up with my fingers, his black eyes were swimming with tears.

'Oh, God.' I knew my guess had been correct. I pulled Laszlo into my arms, and he didn't resist, but cried like a child in my hold. 'I'm so sorry, Laszlo…' I continued inadequately. 'I… I didn't know…'

'Of course, you didn't know!' he shouted, his breath hitching with his tears. 'You didn't know about my arm either until the Beecham murders! I was too _gottverdammt_ PROUD to say anything!!!'

His outburst finished in a stifled sob, and I held him close as tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Listen to me, Laszlo.' I said firmly. 'Your father can do nothing to hurt you now. It's _over_. It's over Laszlo. We're your family now. Cyrus, Stevie, Sara, the Isaacsons, and me. We'll look after you.'

His sobs eventually quieted and I took his chin in my fingers and turned his face to me. He looked so vulnerable, so childish, lying there in my arms, his face stained with tears. I looked deep into his eyes. 'I would never do anything to hurt you,' I said softly.

'I know, John,' he said with a watery smile. 'I know.' We stayed silent, and he stayed cradled in my arms until his exhaustion and his recent outpouring of emotion overpowered him and he fell asleep. I laid his head carefully against the arm of the sofa, covered him with a blanket, and then left to get some sleep of my own.

Before I went, as I was tucking the blanket around him, with quite motherly motions, now that I come to think of it, on impulse I bent down and whispered in his ear, 'I love you, Laszlo Kreizler,'

He stirred and mumbled something in his sleep. I couldn't make out the words, but, you never know, it just might have been, 'I love you too.'


End file.
